Sitting at home, you dream of living in places you barely know. And yet, you feel like a tourist in your own city. Maybe you should get out more. But when you do go out, you barely recognize anything. It’s a problem: everything important happens somewhere else. You are more attached to political struggles and events in other places. All the food you eat is imported. All your closest friends and family have moved away to live or work in countries where they don’t speak the language. You might as well join them, but then again that’s what brought you to the strange place where you live now—maybe two or three generations ago. Maybe it’s time to put a stop to all this. You should plan a trip to your ancestral home, the home of your parents or grandparents or great-grandparents, your real home. You should reconnect with your history, with your real self. But this is not a promising option either—you are well aware of the kind of economic capture that masquerades as identity tourism, just as you are attuned to the political capture that the fundamentalists taking over your country already lay out with their promises of a return to a fake womb, to a more essential grounding of identity that never existed anyhow…

Julieta Aranda, Brian Kuan Wood, Anton Vidokle

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How Music Takes Place: Excerpts From “The Post-digital Manifesto”
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In Conversation with Nawal El Saadawi
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On Sophia Al-Maria’s The Girl Who Fell to Earth
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From Guilt to Sickness, Part I: Looking for Plague in All the Right Places
James T. Hong

Art and the Cultural Turn: Farewell to Committed, Autonomous Art?
Irmgard Emmelhainz

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